


Reign Of Hell

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gore, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: We can send more than one prompt?!?!! *ahahahahahaaaa* Wincestiel? Demon Dean manages to make Sam into the boy king. They reign side by side and have the best time doing it too. Cherry on their happy couple sundae, they finally manage to capture Castiel. Rogue angel somehow still hell bent on opposing them.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: ficlet prompts [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478657
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Reign Of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely, babe! Ah, now this is a trope I have seen plenty of times before but never came around to write my take on it. I’ll gladly accept this opportunity (:

The room is familiar, and yet not.

Castiel’s mind reminds him it can’t be true. The illusion tears at his sanity, nonetheless.

His vision vibrates—fizzing, static.

The angel Castiel wipes at the constant dribble of blood from his nose.

“Sloppy,” he comments. “Dean wouldn’t have left all those dirty dishes out on the counter.”

A pained groan.

“You’re no fun, you know that?”

Something collides with the back of Castiel’s head; hard. Hard enough his vessel’s skull cracks open and sends him to the bunker kitchen’s familiarly tiled floor.

Castiel’s grace roars—a wasp, repeatedly banging against the wrong side of a window.

“I dunno, man,” ponders the demon, amused, stepping over Castiel’s vessel. “Pretty fun to me.”

Blood floods Castiel’s eyes, his mouth, all orifices—his grace races to catch up with the loss, mend where it can.

The hammer comes down, again, on Castiel’s left hand.

His bones shatter with a crunch edging on comedy.

Only Castiel’s rattling breath, for a moment. The carrousel of his thoughts, his panic; too many emotions.

He was never meant to walk amongst them, was he?

The king says, flatly, from across the room, “I think you broke it.”

“What? Nah. _Naaaah_ , he’s just fucking with us. Hey.” Clothes shift; the demon lowers into a squat. The hammer nudges at the shattered back of Castiel’s head. “Hey, Cas, it’s not bedtime yet, so would you mind? Get up.”

Castiel splutters to vocalize his unwillingness. Furthermore, it doesn’t feel like he’ll be able to move this body anyway.

Less playful now, “I said: get. Up.”

The angel Castiel does not move.

The demon sighs, overly dramatic.

“Being a real pain right now, Cas,” and maybe that’s for the better. If they get bored with him, finally. Kill him, end this, whatever.

After all, there is nothing else to return to.

Castiel’s body is being moved, turned around.

“Giddyup; c’mon, now.”

Dean Winchester’s face smiles down at the angel Castiel. Pets Dean Winchester’s hands down the angel’s shirt to smooth out some of the wrinkles in the fabric; ignores the blood.

Dean Winchester’s voice says, “Good as new,” and Castiel’s body is broken, but his grace won’t be.

The demon’s eyes jump back and forth between Castiel’s, widen just a bit.

That grin fades.

Until the angel grunts—caught—his mind and core and grace in a chokehold, dangling in empty air.

The demon laughs.

“Fucking slut.”

Hands around Castiel’s throat, bearing down. Vertebras shift, splinter.

Those eyes fade to black. Empty.

“Fucking dirty little bitch.”

“What happened?”

“Tried to grace-slap me, the cunt.”

The king snorts.

“You wanna play dirty, angel? We can play dirty all you want.”

“Are you done yet? This is getting kinda old.”

“You hear that, Cas? Sammy’s getting _impatient_ with you.”

This body doesn’t have to breathe, fortunately.

“We don’t want that,” corrects Dean, inches from the angel’s face. Sulphur and fire and smoke. “No, we don’t.”

Standing in an elevator, dropping down.

Castiel can blink his eyes again.

It’s warm, and nothing hurts.

Skin against his, back and front.

His breath flutters in relief—

just a nightmare.

“Hey.” Warm hand on his cheek, cradling, combing his hair back over the side of his head.

He blind-murmurs, “Hey,” and gets Sam’s mouth immediately. Morning-breath, and he loves every molecule of that. Every atom of Sam, every hair and every inch of skin.

Castiel wraps his arms around the human, which stirs the limbs wrapped around him from behind, the body connected to them, formerly sleeping.

An unwilling grunt from Dean.

Sam conspires, “Let him sleep,” and Castiel is grateful for every kiss, every touch.

Gets one of those holy hands between his vessel’s legs and it’s stirring, every time.

“ _Sam_.” Reverent, praying.

Sam Winchester shushes him, gently, forehead to forehead and Castiel’s vessel reacts to the man like any conditioned pet.

“Exactly.”

Castiel’s eyes are closed. Warm and safe and home. He murmurs, “Huh?” and Sam’s hair is like finest silk between his fingers, and they changed the sheets last night, didn’t they; and it’s another morning, about to break.

“Our pet.”


End file.
